


Free

by Schattenmalerin



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Canonical Character Death, M/M, Major spoiler, a last meeting between these two, kinda sad, the Albert Mason/Arthur Morgan is only implied
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-22
Updated: 2019-05-22
Packaged: 2020-01-25 14:10:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,595
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18576079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Schattenmalerin/pseuds/Schattenmalerin
Summary: ***"That they are," Mason agreed with him, a perpetual smile on his lips. "And this is America," he stretches out both his arms as in emphasis. "We have a macabre tendency to love these killers. It's part of our make-up."Arthur remains silent, because he knows better. Knows civilization has nothing for them except a bullet in their head or a noose around their neck. The era of outlaws and gunslinger is reaching its end.Their time is limited. Especially his own one.***A last meeting between Arthur Morgan and his favorite wildlife photographer Albert Mason.





	Free

**Author's Note:**

> Translation of my own work.  
> This originally was written for a contest on a german fanfiction site and I just thought, maybe some of you might be interested in reading it :)  
> The Arthur Morgan/Albert Mason is only implied, but it's there, folks. This is kinda sad and a bit angsty maybe, so be warned. Major spoilers ahead!

Inspiration for this Oneshot was the following picture: [Camping](https://www.deviantart.com/fantasyart0102/art/Camping-585172844) by [FantasyArt0102](https://www.deviantart.com/fantasyart0102)

 

**_Free_ **

"Oh, you're a true gentleman, Mr. Morgan. A true gentleman."

Arthur snorts, shaking his head.  
It's not the first time he's hearing these words.  
It's not going to be the last time he's denying them, calling them bullshit.  
Old habits are hard to abandon. No one knows this better than Arthur.  
If he could, he wouldn't be in this hopeless situation, had cut himself loose from all this.

"I ain't nothin' like that, Mason."

The answer is gruff, dismissive, but the other one is already familiar with this behavioral pattern. He's not deterred by it, giving him a sincere smile instead.

"Oh, but you absolutely are! Without you I would be wolf meat. Or starved to death. Fell off a cliff. Robbed and shot by bandits—Well, maybe not in this exact order, huh? They probably first killed, then robbed me. Seems time-saving, wouldn't you agree?"

A rough laugh escapes Arthur's throat. Masons unstoppable urge to talk may be irritating for others, Arthur though can't stop himself from finding this quirk endearing. Even if he never would admit it out loud.

"Don't forget the alligators," Arthur reminds him with a meaningful glance, then he stands up with a pant. He curses his body, his lungs for denying to function correctly when the nasty pant turns into a rattling breath, which he tried to conceal by clearing his throat.

Arthur truly is no man of great luck, still he seems to possess a small glimmer of it, because Mason doesn't recognize anything. Or if he does, he lets it pass without comment.

"How could I ever forget those beautiful beasts?" sighs his conversation partner, a nearly dreamy expression flashing over his face and only Mason is crazy enough to rowing along the foggy swamp with a half broken boat, ordering Arthur to wake an alligator up from his afternoon nap and on top of that looking dreamy when remembering this encounter, which bordered on plain suicide for Arthur.  
Only Arthur is foolish enough to risk his own life in order to help the amateur photographer to get a better photo.  
"Truly fascinating creatures."

Arthur counters the naivety of Mason with a disbelieving snort.  
"Yeah, real _fascinating_ how," a cough disrupts him in his own words, "they can devour a fellow in mere seconds."

Arthur knows what he's talking about, seen it with his own eyes: Dutch's hands pushing Bronte's head under water. The alligator, slowly drawing nearer to them - curious, lurking, _hungry_. And how Dutch, after a second of tense dead silence, throws Bronte's body over the boat. How the muddy water turns dark red.

"Predators they is, dangerous killers," he warns, not completely sure if his auxiliary is only directed at the alligators.

"That they are," Mason agreed with him, a perpetual smile on his lips. "And this is America," he stretches out both his arms as in emphasis. "We have a macabre tendency to love these killers. It's part of our make-up."

Arthur remains silent, because he knows better. Knows civilization has nothing for them except a bullet in their head or a noose around their neck. The era of outlaws and gunslinger is reaching its end.  
Their time is limited. Especially his own one.

"Looks like ya don't hafta sleep completely outdoor at least," he changes the subject, nodding toward the yellow tent he had put up for a totally overchallenged Mason mere seconds ago.  
Sometimes it's close to a wonder that this clumsy guy is still walking among the living, considering the time he spends in the wild nature and his lack of survival skills.

"As I said, Mr. Morgan, I'd be lost without you." The photographer puts his hands to his chest in a dramatical gesture, which would look inauthentic and exaggerating on everyone else, but is a sign of true thankfulness on Mason.

Arthur waves his hand dismissively, once for the thanking, then due to the concerned glance, as he holds his fist against his mouth, coughing heavy. Something sticky gathers in his fist and discreetly he wipes his palm clean on his red shirt. The color of the shirt may hide most of the problem, but he feels another fit of coughing announcing itself in his throat.  
He quickly taps against the rim of his hat in a farewell gesture. He doesn't want to show any weaknesses.  
"Ya take care, Mason."

Arthur never was a man of many words and long goodbyes never his forte. Especially goodbyes of this sort. The less words, the less pain it will cause.

Mason though seems not to even think about a farewell. In a gentle gesture he puts his hand on Arthur's arm, stopping him in his movement, startling him with this sudden act of bravery. Quizzically his eyes lower themselves from Mason's face to the hand holding him, then rapidly retreating under Arthur's observing glance.

"Y-You already l-leaving?" Arthur doesn't miss out on the soft stutter. "Wouldn't you consider keeping me company for a little while longer? I got provisions with me, t-too much for me alone, if I really think about it. Quite foolish, huh?" Mason laughed nervously, wringing his hands. "Furthermore it's already pretty late. You very welcome to sleep here, too. There's enough space in my tent for another person."

Arthur blinks, startled by the proposal and only now Mason recognizes the subliminal equivocation of his words, because he continues to stutter hectically, a treacherous blush on his cheeks: "I-I didn't mean it like—I…You, of course, can put up your own tent! Yes! Yes yes, t-that's probably a far better idea, after all I don't want to dist-"

"Thanks for, uh, the offer, Mason," Arthur releases him of his nervous flow of talk. "But there is a few things needing be taking care of."

The flash of disappointment crossing Mason's face for a second gives his heart a sting, yet he doesn't let it show through. He _can't_ let it show through. He's too old for such sentimental bullshit, too far away from _living_.

"Of course, Mr. Morgan. You are a very busy man." The smile seems forced, a dull copy of how Mason greets him on every occasion. "I hope our paths will cross again in the near future?"

Arthur only nods, not able to squeeze out a "yes". He doesn't want to, _can't_ lie to him.

Then he turns away from Mason, stomping with large strides toward Cassiopeia who got herself comfortable under one of the trees, chewing away at a few tuft of grass. He pats his loyal companion at the neck, gets a content huff in the process and places his left foot in the clamp.

He should be on his way back to the camp or to Saint Denis, where Colm O'Driscoll would be executed tomorrow and after all the torture that bastard put him through, Arthur should be fucking happy to see him swing.

He isn't, feels the noose around his own neck too well. It suffocates him, leaves him stertorous, but he deserves it. He'd put the noose around his own neck, unknowingly, and now he has to live with the consequences of his actions - and die by it.  
Death row inmate and executioner at the same time, that he is.

He has to be on his way, yet he possesses no strength to pull himself onto his horse and reason for this isn't solely the bad cough making his body shake.  
Cassiopeia turns her head in his direction in slight concern, the white mane tickling on his cheek while he props himself up on her back and struggles through the coughing fit.

One should think he is already used to this ordeal, knows how it feels to asphyxiate, the burning throat, the lungs, begging for air he can give them only in an insufficient amount.  
It doesn't get easier, every uncontrollable cough attack a fight for survival. For an _extension_ of his time, because the death reaches out his icy claws at him and it's becoming harder and harder to dodge them.

Still he does it, within a hair's breadth, again and again. Turns his head to the side and spits blood, sprinkling the high grass to his feet red.

"What am I doin' here, my girl?" He glances at Cassiopeia who musters him out of dark eyes, presenting his neck further to him as he caresses the soft fur.

Who's gonna watch after his girl once he's gone?

And who…?

Arthur knows he shouldn't make this even harder on himself. Knows there is nothing here for him anymore.

Nonetheless he turns around again, takes in the view presented to him with a hard gasp.

The night had fallen by now, bathing the by gray-white clouds and sparkling stars coated sky in a deep nuance of blue.  
It's a welcome change to the otherwise so orange-red evening sky he could watch in the southern regions or New Austin's wild, rampant prairie.  
Up here though, close to the Grizzlies', which mountain ridge majestically looms at the horizon in the distance, the night gets a strangely calm aura.

He'd already recognized that on his solitary trips up north and even if he had been goddamn happy to leave the cold mountains behind him, it pulls him back to it now.  
A last, lonely ride to the snow-covered mountains in the north, feeling the serenity and roughness of nature one last time, feeling alive.

 _It's best for your condition to get somewhere warm and dry_ , and Arthur laughs bitterly, as he did back there in the doctor's office in Saint Denis, because fate possesses a macabre irony, which brought him from the unbearable heat Guarmas into the cold, rainy north New Hanovers. Not that it really matters.

 _Not that it makes a difference anymore_ , and he searches for his premium cigarettes, opens the package and pulls one out. He needs to get rid of the metallic taste in his mouth, the taste of _illness_ , of _decay_.  
The cigarette is lit quickly, ends between his dry, chapped lips. Meanwhile he uses the dim light beam of the match to shine on one of the many cigarette cards one can find in the strangest places all around the country - or in the package of premium cigarettes.  
Arthur laughs mirthless upon seeing the title of the card and fate laughs with him, though not mirthless, but mocking and not with him, but _at_ him.

_Blackwater._

The beginning of the end. The failed ferry job. Their escape into the mountains. Survival. The robbery of Leviticus Cornwall's train. Hope. The shooting in Valentine. Pinkertons. Doubt. The feud between the Grays and Braithewaites. The bullet in Sean's head. Saint Denis and Angelo Bronte. Doubt. Kieran's severed head. The failed bank robbery. Lenny and Hosea. The escape with the ship. Stranded on Guarma. Doubt. Back in Van Horn. Doubt. New camp in Beaver Hollow. Doubt. Molly's lifeless body. Visit to the doctor in Saint Denis. Sick. Dutch's strange plans. Doubt. Micah's fucking big mouth. Hate. Dutch's behavior. Different. John's rescue from Sisika. Hope. Dutch's rage. Distrust.  
_Dutch. Doubt. Different. Distrust._  
Mason…?

Arthur looks up from the card, puts it in his pocket. He does not possess enough time to complete his collection, yet burning the card wouldn't change the past.

He fills his destroyed lungs further with smoke, forcing another coughing fit to rise in his throat and rapidly darts his eyes to Mason, afraid, he might have noticed him.

He didn't. Mason stands with his back turned toward him, one hand casually on his hips, face directed at the atmospheric panorama in front of him. The moonlight shining through the clouds surrounds him like a halo, lightens up his figure, the bright, ridiculous looking hat covering his brown hair and giving him a strange charm, the orange vest under which white shirtsleeves peeked out, the slightly wider, green pants and brown boots. In his belt bag: all kinds of camera equipment, which he doesn't dare to put away even now, too great the temptation to get a rare specimen in front of the camera lens.

In his right hand he holds - and Arthur can only shake his head in amusement about this - a walking cane.  
_For climbing hills and for defense purposes, Mr. Morgan_ , he'd explained him with a proud smile and Arthur is certain, that with this thing he couldn't even fight off the coyote, who had stolen his bag of provisions back when they'd first met. A gun would be a better defense.  
Then again: Knowing Mason he would rather shoot himself in the leg than hit an animal and bleed to death in the wild or luring hungry predators to him with his wound.

Arthur swallows down the lump in his throat building upon thinking about this possibility and turns his gaze away from Mason to his little, four-legged companion who, according to Mason's telling, walked up to him in Strawberry and didn't leave his side since then. Arthur had insinuated that, no matter how cute that dog is, he could neither defend Mason nor himself from the wildlife out here, yet Mason couldn't be swayed by him, saying that he'd already taken that little stray into his heart and therefore couldn't send him away.

The little dreamer in Arthur persuades himself this would be the reason why Mason tries to draw out every encounter with him - because Mason had taken him into his heart as well - but the realist in him makes clear that Mason could never fall in love with a killer, in defiance of his own statement.

Interested? Yes.  
Fascinated? Quite possible.  
In love?

Arthur shakes his head.

Mason— _Albert_ deserves better.  
Mary deserves better.  
Eliza and Isaac would have deserved better than to be killed over ridiculous ten dollars.  
He however…

The cigarette is burned down, as is his lifetime. Arthur flicks the pathetic rest away.  
Then he pulls out his own camera. He may not be a professional, but it doesn't matter.

He looks through the camera lens, watches the photographer, whose passion led him out into the dangerous nature, with nothing armed except for his camera, his four-legged friend and that flashy, yellow tent downright inviting bandits to rob him.  
The man, who sees beauty in every little detail, as he sees the good in every human being, in _him_.

Arthur isn't like Albert. He doesn't have an eye for beauty, for the good thing and still he wants to capture this exact moment like nothing else before.

He presses the trigger button, then takes a look at the photo which loses a bit of his magical effect in black and white, yet takes on an important role in his heart, because:  
In another time, under different circumstances he might could have been a part of this photograph, standing next to him, laughing… _happy_.  
Under different circumstances they could have been friends…or something else.

Arthur packs the camera in and turns away.  
He doesn't look back.  
There's nothing more for him here.  
His time is reaching its end.

***

Metallic taste in his mouth. Pain in his limbs. Cold sweat. Eyes fluttering close.  
Blackness.  
A cough, blood-sprinkled clothes. Exhausted. Struggling for air. Feeble. Tired. So fucking tired.  
Blackness.  
Trembling hands. A picture. Memories. A weak smile. Content. Happy. Slack body.  
Blackness.  
Flat, quick breathing. Warmth on his skin. A deer, looking up to him.  
Blackness.  
The last rising of the chest. A last breath.  
A deer, in far distance, striding into the rising sun.  
Light.

Free.

 

**Author's Note:**

> 1) Anyone liking Arthur Morgan/Albert Mason as much as me? I just love their interaction and was a bit sad that there wasn't really a final encounter after that 'Mason almost falling off a cliff' thing, so in my imagination Arthur also saved him from bandits and well, helped with that ridiculous yellow tent ^^
> 
> 2) My first fanfiction in this fandom, so I hope I managed to capture their characters well enough. 
> 
> 3) Kudos and comments are always welcome :)  
> Hope you enjoyed it and maybe I'll be posting more stuff in this fandom (also with a different pairing)


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